Push
by lamentomori
Summary: What lengths is John willing to go to in order to keep his push? Warnings: Slash (Vince/Cena), implied one-sided Punkena, profanity.


_Warnings: Slash (Vince/Cena), implied one-sided Punkena, profanity._

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><p>There's always something, always some<em>one<em>. He's worked hard, worked hard his whole career, and there's _always_ someone looking to take it from him. Even from the very beginning, there'd been someone else who was the chosen one, so he'd worked hard. It hadn't been _easy_, but once he'd worked out what to do, how to get elevated, he'd never looked back.

Twenty-eleven had been a rough year, twenty-twelve just as bad. It'd been close a few times, far closer than he'd liked. Who knew a scruffy Weasel would be the one to come so close, who knew that a scruffy Weasel was the one who'd outsell him. It'd taken some careful manoeuvring, but getting that problem fixed had been easy enough. A few choice whispers in Hunter's ear. Hunter had never liked the _Indy Darling_ very much anyways. As for why, he's never pried, but there are rumours. All kinds of rumours, but what to believe and what to dismiss is always tricky, and not really something he concerns himself with, it's not his place to _pry_. The old bastard had been trickier. He saw something of himself in the Weasel. Both, for all their outward arrogance and confidence, are actually awkward with people, both are able to fake it, but really they're only comfortable around their _people_. Only the weasel's people were picked off quickly. He never made friends, only enemies, and people with the knives hidden behind smiles. Divide and conquer is a good strategy. It's always been one he's subscribed to, and it worked exceptionally well against the Weasel.

After the Weasel came the Troll. It hadn't been too hard to keep Hunter on board, and this time, the old bastard didn't seem all that bothered. It was only after the Weasel walked, and suggesting to Hunter that his termination papers were sent on his wedding day had been such a wonderful rib, that the Troll _really_ became a threat. It'd been close, but then _injuries_ had sent the Troll back under the bridge, and the problem was solved.

But _now_ there's another one. Another one of these _awful darlings_. He's sick of these uppity, smark-bait pieces of shit coming in and trying to take what is his. He worked, works, and will work _hard_ for this. This one is touted as the next big thing, and this time he's going to nip it in the bud. This time he's not going to let it be like the fucking Weasel, that fucking bastard. Still, _still_ over despite walking out, despite _quitting_, well being fired but no-one knows that yet, because the Weasel got lawyers involved, because the Weasel thinks he's too good to talk to anyone, because he's worked _hard_ at making sure the old bastard never contacted that prima-donna Weasel bitch. It bugs him how close it'd been for a while, how one bastard _Weasel_ had almost undone all of his hard work, just by being an arrogant, stuck-up piece of shit with the entire Internet on his dick.

He could cater to those fucking scumbags if he wanted to, he could do what they wanted, and in not five minutes, they'd be bitching about something else. The money, the real money isn't in _wrestling_ fans, all that's there is cheeto dust and desperation. The _real_ money is in the little kids. it's in mommy and daddy's wallets and lack of emotional connection to their children. Modern parents don't _earn_ their children's love; they earn money to _buy_ it. Its one reason he doesn't want kids, he's no desire to be all _Make-a-Wish_ nice on his down time. Children wouldn't appreciate the time he spends wading through shit to keep his spot, they'd expect his attention, and he doesn't have time for that, unlike the Weasel. He's no doubt that sooner rather than later, the Weasel's going to spawn, the stick insect he married is the _broody_ type. There's a part of him that hopes like the spider she named her finisher after, she eats that Weasel bastard alive.

There's a little lingering resentment towards the Weasel, he knows that, but really, he's not been outsold in merch in so long, and it had been _so_ close, putting that fucking Weasel bastard back in his place had taken a lot. It'd taken more than the usual, it'd taken Hunter, it'd taken Reeves, it'd taken flouting the fucking Hippocratic Oath. There were times when the Weasel was less a weasel and more a cockroach.

The Troll never came _close_ to causing the trouble the Weasel did, not even scraping the surface of the level of concern caused by that scruffy bastard, and now there's another one. Some homeless looking, unwashed street-rat. The Rat might be trouble, the Rat might pose him problems in the future, and this time he's going to nip it in the bud. The last monster of the week is at a loose end, and he thinks that the Rat would be a good fit. Fuck knows there's enough _television_ people in Creative to think that this is actually a good idea, and the scum on the Internet will be busy coming in their sweatpants, that have never seen real worked for sweat, to notice what's happening in the main event. The main event where he'll be, where he'll _always_ be. The best match on the card doesn't matter, the main event is the _last_ match, and he takes great pride in knowing how many he kept that Weasel bastard out of, the little lingering resentment _might_ actually be a lot, but that doesn't matter, not really. What matters is that the Weasel is taken care of, the Troll is out _rehabbing_, and there's a Rat to deal with.

The room is quiet, not dark, but not well lit. It's better that way, better in the half dark of monitors and lamps. Acts like this, they're not for the light. Grimy acts in dingy lighting, it makes sense. He's not proud, not really. It's just what he does; it's the _best_ way to make sure he gets what he needs, what his fans deserve, what _he_ deserves.

"Wha-" The old bastard starts, but he stops him, sets his phone up, starts recording, and drops to his knees in front of the man, unzipping his slacks. "I-" He doesn't let the old bastard finish his sentence, barely lets him start it, instead he engulfs the old cock, tonguing the head with practiced familiarity. It's mildly humiliating, but effective. Blowing the old bastard is far from the worst he's done for him, and it's always a surprise when he can get it up, always a surprise when his steroid ravaged body manages something. The hands on the back of his head feel like claws, digging in, holding him in place whilst the old bastard starts fucking him. He can't say he keeps his mind blank in these moments. He thinks, he _always _thinks. His mind never stops, never rests, is always vigilant in making sure he's aware of the next threat. He'd been on the back foot with the Weasel, hadn't been expecting it, had been expecting that first time he'd threatened to quit to be for real, but the old bastard had interfered. That'd been his mistake. He'd let the old bastard go after the Weasel, and whilst he doesn't think the Weasel would do this sort of thing for his spot, but he wouldn't put it past him. The Weasel was smart. The Weasel was cunning. The Weasel was attractive, in a non-conventional, scruffy, unwashed, wide-eyed vulnerable kind of way. Not that he was attracted to the Weasel, no, he can just appreciate beauty in unexpected places, and the Weasel was unexpected, and not what he wants on his mind. His hand creeps up, cups the old bastard's balls, rolling and squeezing them. He knows how to get the old bastard off, knows how to do it quickly. He wonders if the Weasel ever did this, if the Troll ever tried, if the Rat is considering it. It's pointless to think about these things though. He has the old bastard by the balls, _literally_ and _figuratively_. He's sure the Weasel would appreciate the correct use of the words in this case, the thought forcing a grin to his stretched lips. The old bastard thrusts up harder, and he moves his head as best he can against the nails digging into his scalp. When the old bastard comes, it's with a wordless, hoarse noise that makes him feel slightly sick. It makes him think of the time he'd roomed beside the Weasel and heard him coming, makes him think of the softly, sharp noise he made, of his heavy panting, and glistening skin. It makes him think that he should have probably just shut the shared bathroom door instead off peeking through the crack and watching that firm, pale ass moving back and forth. He shouldn't have tried to catch a glimpse of the tight little hole between those delicately curved cheeks. Not that he was ever _attracted_ to the Weasel, but fucking a man puts him in his place so much quicker than the route he'd had to take. Fucking the Weasel would have spared a lot of awkward glances, and locker room jostling. It's a pack back there, and the order is set in stone. The Weasel needed to be reminded of who the Alpha male in the back was, once he'd been reminded things would have been so much easier, but the Weasel never made things easy.

"Who?" The old bastard mutters, a sour look on his face, something sullen and unhappy. The old bastard knows full well what he's there for, knows that this was a bribe to make sure that things turn out the way they should. They've gotten past the need to talk about this. He shows up, gives a little, and then gets a little in return. The path to money and success stays smooth, and he stays where he belongs. The old bastard has been in a mood since the Weasel walked though, has been sullen since the Weasel sent them that letter, has been _moping_ over that pitiful Weasel. He doesn't care about the Weasel. He doesn't care that the scum from the Internet still chant his name, doesn't care that they take photos and speculate. What he cares about are his fans, and when it comes to them, he knows, his fingers on the pulse. The old bastard is out of touch, and everyone knows it. He knows he's invaluable, and the amount of carefully recorded blackmail material on his computer agrees with him. The old bastard looks tired, and he wonders if the doc has been misdiagnosing him too. It doesn't much matter, Hunter's on the same page; if anything, Hunter's an inspiration. It might almost be worth having a kid to marry one of Hunter's daughters so he could be even more secure in his position. "Who is it now, John?" The old bastard sighs, tucking himself back in his pants, dragging his thoughts back to the reason he's in this room, to the reason he's still on his knees. A smirk spreads over his lips. This time he's starting early, this time he's not going to be outsold, he's not going to be denied a main event, this time he's not going to be denied being the most important person in _any_ segment, not just his own. The Rat is getting his poison as soon as possible.

"Ambrose... I think a feud with Wyatt would really _elevate_ them both."

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><p><em>I'm cold and in a mood... A weird pissy, frustrated mood. If I had a frustration badge, alls there's be left on it right now would be the "F" and the "U".<em>

_I honestly don't know quite what anyone is going to make of this one, it's kind of different for me... _

**_Reviews, comments, criticisms, asides, random thoughts, all would be very much appreciated! Thanksss!_**


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